The apartment is quiet, bathed in the soft golden light of the late afternoon sun. The faint hum of the city outside barely reaches the inside, muted by thick curtains and thicker walls. You’re curled up on the sofa with a book in hand, legs tucked beneath a warm throw blanket. The kind of stillness that invites daydreams and drowsiness surrounds you—until the gentle click of the door catches your attention.
You look up.
Xavier steps inside without a word.
He doesn’t call out to you like he usually does—no “I’m home,” no teasing remark about your reading choices, no mischievous glint in his eye. His hair is a little messy, his eyes shadowed by exhaustion as he quietly toes off his shoes and pads into the living room. You open your mouth to greet him, but something in his expression softens your voice before it even forms. He looks... tired. Not just physically. There’s something weighing on him, something unsaid.
He walks over to you wordlessly and you sit up a little, setting your book aside. He doesn’t say anything still—just rubs at one of his eyes like a child who hasn’t slept well and lowers himself onto the sofa beside you. Then he shifts slowly, curling his long frame across the couch until his head is resting gently in your lap.
His cheek presses against your thigh, and his breath sighs out, as though just being near you lets him finally exhale something he’s been holding inside all day.
You’re still for a moment, stunned by the intimacy of it—Xavier, usually confident and composed, seeking comfort like this, his face turned toward your stomach, eyelids fluttering shut. You can feel the warmth of him through the fabric of your clothes. The tension in his shoulders begins to unwind ever so slightly.
He reaches up and gently takes your hand—his fingers wrapping around yours, guiding it up toward his head. Without looking, without a word, he nestles into your palm like he needs it more than he can admit.
You begin to stroke your fingers through his hair.
Soft, slow passes. Gentle, rhythmic motions. He melts into the sensation like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the moment. His breathing evens out within minutes, the rise and fall of his chest syncing to the cadence of yours. And in the silence, you begin to realize: this isn’t just fatigue. It’s something deeper.
Xavier’s always been good at hiding how much things get to him. The pressure from the bureau. The missions he can’t talk about. The responsibility that he carries like armor no one else can see. But here, with his head in your lap and your hand in his hair, the walls are down. Just for a little while.
You don’t press him with questions. You don’t need to.
Your presence is enough. Your hand running through his hair. Your quiet breath above him. You tilt your head back against the cushion and look at the ceiling, fingers moving in slow circles along his scalp. The way his brows unknit and his body slackens under your touch—it tells you more than any explanation could.
Minutes pass like this. Maybe more. You lose track of time, lost in the quiet closeness of it all.
At some point, he murmurs your name. Barely above a whisper. Half-asleep.
You glance down, brushing a thumb along his temple.
“I’m here,” you say softly.
His fingers twitch slightly against your thigh, then go still again. There’s a slight crease in his brow, and you wonder what dreams he’s drifting through. You lean down a little, pressing your lips to his hairline. A featherlight kiss. He breathes in deeply, like the gesture reached someplace he couldn’t quite put into words.
You wonder how long he’s been holding himself together before this. How many nights he’s spent staring at the ceiling, pretending he wasn’t drowning in thoughts. You can’t fix everything. You know that. But for now, you can be the place he comes to rest.
When he finally stirs again, it’s dark outside. The city’s glow flickers gently beyond the curtains. He blinks up at you slowly, his voice still rough with sleep.
“…How long was I out?” he asks, his tone low.